Little did I know that today James would prove himself to be my knight in cargo pants and Skechers. Because we were out of milk and a couple other items, we decided to go to McDonald’s for lunch. I order the grilled chicken club combo.
After getting to my seat, I realized I’d forgotten to ask for some honey mustard sauce. So I went up the counter and asked the guy (who looks like he’s a team leader or something) if I could have a honey mustard. He asked me what I’d ordered and I told him.

Dumb McD’s guy: “Oh, it doesn’t come with it, so I’m going to have to charge you for the sauce.”

Me: “What? I come here all the time and have never been charged for the sauce!”

Dumb McD’s guy:”Well, ma’am, it’s for the chicken nuggets, and the sauce doesn’t go with what you ordered.”

Me: “But I get this all the time and have never been charged for the sauce before.”

Me: “Forget it!” I huffed and walked away in amazed anger.

The guy became very defensive and repeated that my sandwich already has its own sauce on it, and so if I want more he’ll have to charge me for it.

(Let me just add that I often go to this very same McD’s, get the McChicken and honey mustard and have NEVER been charged for it. In fact, I’m sometimes given more than one.)

Naturally, this upset me to no end. Now, I’ve never had an irrational or outwardly emotional outbreak since I’ve gotten pregnant. On the contrary, my pregnancy has been pretty smooth sailing hormone-wise. But as I sat down at the booth today and told James what had happened, I found myself getting teary-eyed! I was on the verge of an emotional breakdown over a tub of honey mustard?

I picked up the bun of my sandwich and saw the big glob of mayo right in the center and my anger flared up again. I took my sandwich to the counter and said in a very controlled voice,

“Please, may I have a honey mustard?”

The guy put it on the counter and said,

“It doesn’t go with what you ordered.”

I grabbed the tub and snapped back,

“Exactly! That’s why I wanted one!”

As I walked away with my prize, the guy yelled,

“But I’m going to have to charge you for it!”

I got back to our booth and found it empty. I thought James had gone to the bathroom in embarrassment or something. At this point, people in the restaurant were giving me funny looks, but I didn’t care. I was so damned focused on getting my honey mustard fix that everything else seemed unimportant!

I looked up at the front counter and noticed James talking briefly to the guy and as he moseyed back he looked a bit satisfied. He saw me opening my treasured sauce and said,

“Oh, you got one.” So I told him what happened. He grinned and nodded, as if to say, “Yeah, that’s my wife!”

I asked him about his conversation with the guy and he smiled and recounted his little chat. It boiled down to this: James asked him about the honey mustard, and the guy gave him a lecture about how the sauces are specifically for the chicken nuggets so if he wanted one he’d have to charge for it. So then James replied,

“You know, can’t you just let her have one? I mean, it’s Mother’s Day, and she’s pregnant.” There was a girl cleaning the trays behind the counter next to him, and when James said that, her face puckered up in an “ooooooh, snap!” expression and the guy behind the counter shut up really quick.

James then said,

“That’s all I have to say, so enjoy your miserable little life now,” as he smiled, waved him off, and came back to our table.

This Mustardgate was way more interesting with a much more satisfying outcome, don’t you think?

This article answers the question of whether we should push our children to succeed. How much is too much? Where do we stop? At the end of the article are a few tips on how you can help your child become a successful, independent person.

Ok, so that title is kind of gross, but I’ve never been one to shrink from bodily function jokes. Hell, I fell in love with Jim “Talks Out of His Ass” Carrey after the first Ace Ventura movie. So yeah, a-peeing I will go, and continue to go…every other hour…

And it turns out it’s not just pregnancy that’s causing my frequent trips to the potty. It’s the dreaded UTI. Apparently, they’re common in the first trimester and so now I’m doubly forbidden from drinking anything caffeinated or carbonated. Ok, I can handle the non-caffeine, but no carbonation? ARRRRRRRGGGHH. I love the feel of carbonation in drinks, and so I’m going to have to bite the bullet on this for at least a week until my medication is completed.

Before the CNM (certified nurse midwife) finally got through to us, I was imagining all sorts of horrific scenarios after James told me about her messages. What’s wrong with me? Is it cancer? Is it something that could harm the baby? Oh my god! I’m going to die!!!!!!!! I don’t normally panic outwardly. Usually, I relegate my panic attacks to the darkened bedroom while huddled beneath the covers, crying silently for my (now) limited time on earth, because surely, the CNM wouldn’t have called only two days after my lab tests unless it was absolutely life-threatening, right? Of course not!

But no, she had to go and ruin my sense of doom and inform us that it’s just a UTI and I need to drink lots of cranberry juice and lay off the caffeine and carbonation. What a crappy denoument. All that worry, and for what? A urinary tract infection. And James was hedging his bets on Bubonic Plague! Oh well, at least I’ll still be alive after treatment’s completed, so there’s that bright spot!

I just hate having to take medications on a time-table because I inevitably forget or sleep through the hour at which I’m supposed to pop a pill. Why, just this morning, I slept through my 8:30am dose and didn’t wake up until 11:15. Since I’d awakened a few times to pee (stumbling half asleep into the bathroom, and then tripping through doorways back into bed, only to find the cat had usurped my pillow, so my head landed on his midsection), I couldn’t tell if I’d sleepily dosed myself and forgotten, so I had to count how many pills were left before I concluded that I was three hours late taking one.

And just as a side note: Smith, the cat, is so damned lazy, that once he’s in a spot he likes, even my head on his belly isn’t enough motivation to get him to move. He stayed there, under my head, for several minutes, purring.

I have a content producer page over at another site that pays for articles I submit. Over the last month I’ve noticed a new commenter who is not a member of this site named “Viv.”

Now “Viv” showed up out of the blue and began to critique each of my articles regarding deafness with detailed and sometimes confrontational language, not seeming to notice or care, “her” opinions were in sync with mine. The first comment this person left was this:

“AG Bell and the society he founded being humored by deaf is like Jews being tolerant to Adolf Hitler and Nazis.”

WTF?

My article clearly stated that I was not in favor of the way the AG Bell Association of the Deaf had attacked a particular commercial done by Pepsi just prior to the 2008 Super Bowl. The commercial used deaf actors using sign language and was funny and well-received by a large portion of the deaf community. The only people who seemed to have a problem with it were members of AG Bell and strict oralists who used it as an opportunity to decry Pepsi’s commercial as an example of “stereotyping” the deaf. My article focused on why I believed AG Bell was wrong.

And yet, the Nazi comment popped up.

I should have figured it out right then and there. Really. My ex-husband is a WWII fanatic and enjoys using war references at every chance he gets. Hell, if I were discussing the manner in which dogs shit, he’d find a way to link it to some kind of war tactic.

But I wasn’t paying attention because around that time I was just figuring out I was pregnant. Yeah, I was preoccupied with the prospect of impending motherhood. So of course, it didn’t register at first. Even though the comments left me with a very familiar feeling of irritation, I didn’t catch on yet. Nor did it register after a nearly a month’s worth of rambling critiques until “Viv” decided to leave a comment on an article that had nothing to do with deafness. “She” had read a story I had written about the only blind date I’d ever been on way back in the 90’s. Here’s a run-down of the commentary exchange between me and “Viv:”

Viv- Sounds like a typical guy. So have you ever known a man who really knew much?
2/11/09
(Ok, no problem with that comment. This could have come from a bona fide, embittered female from anywhere in the world.)

Me- Yup! My husband!
2/11/09

Viv- Sounds like you had a few. Just this one? I think about a few I’ve had. Not only this one. Like the say in class, it is serial monoamy (sic) in present day America….They aren’t all stupid in bed and out…..
2/15/09

(I didn’t read this one, and if I had, I would have taken action sooner. Why? Because nowhere in my article or content producer page did I mention ever having been married more than once. How could this person justify assuming I’d been married before? I did not reply to this one.)

Viv- So what does this paragon of wisdom do and what is he like? What in particulary (sic) is he so wise about?
2/25/09

Naturally, you can understand my sense of utter and complete WTF-edness at these last two comments when I saw them last night for the first time. It was then that I reviewed every last comment “Viv” had made since January 27th and came to the conclusion that “Viv” is actually my ex-husband, and he has been cyber-stalking me.

You may wonder how I can be so sure about it. Well, I was with this paragon of mental illness for nearly seven years. His habits are the same as they were in 1985. He obsesses about things that happened to him over twenty years ago and refuses to “let it go,” and move on. He also has been attending college classes for well over 15 years in order to avoid paying back old student loans. Not only that, the grammatical and spelling errors are similar to what I’d expect of him. But the kicker was his sentence structure and syntax. My ex-husband has a unique way of putting his thoughts down on paper and after I reviewed every last comment he made, I realized the pattern could not be disputed. Because he had physically stalked me for a few months after I left him, this latest development has left me seething with anger and frustration.

And so after considering what kind of action I could take, I decided to let “Viv” know the game was up. I contacted the content producer site’s help desk and explained the situation and my suspicions. I also left this comment for “her” to mull over:

Me- Wow, inappropriate comments that sound like a jealous ex-husband….

I haven’t had my first prenatal appointment yet (that’s next week on the 24th) so I’m estimating how far along I am. I think I’m close to day 45. According to the “Pregnancy Journal,” my baby’s nipples are now visible and my little love is approximately 2/3″ long. All I know is that I’m tired all the damn time, I pee constantly, and my stomach has become a bottomless pit of perpetual hunger. For something so tiny, it sure drains my energy!

I’ve lost my taste for broccoli and ground beef. Last weekend I made a stew with rice, ground beef, and broccoli, along with carrots, corn, peppers, onions, etc., and had to force it down. Usually, I love it. But after smelling it and eating it, I couldn’t stand it. But eat it I did, because A) I was too damn lazy to make anything else, and B) we’re on a budget, so I couldn’t let it go to waste.

I started a babysitting/sign language job a month ago (right before I discovered I was pregnant). The extra money is a huge help and every Wednesday when I’m done I reward myself with something special, like Taco Bell, or 7-11’s cream cheese and jalepeno taquitos. I wish Chicago had a Chick-Fil-A, otherwise I’d hit that up, too. I’ve been craving their Polynesian sauce. Unfortunately, my husband says my craving does not warrant a trip to South Bend, Indiana. (Cheap bastard!) So I think I’ll have to satisfy myself with a McDonald’s chicken sandwich. It won’t compare to the juicy heaven that is the Chick-Fil-A breast, but nothing does, really. Unless it’s the Wendy’s spicy crispy chicken sandwich. *groans*

Missed period one day, two days. No. Could I be? Nahhhh, I can’t get pregnant. Three days, no period. Starting to get really hungry all the time. Eating ravenously. Four days…ummm, maybe I am? Ok, getting antsy here. Day five. I CAN’T STAND THE SUSPENSE! Damn, where’s the food?

Went to dollar store to pick up cheap test on advice of a friend “I had two friends use them, and they work!” Found $1 prego test. Peed on stick. Holy crap! Both lines indicate pregnancy! I’m pregnant! Must eat!

Wait. It was a crappy $1 test. Don’t get too ecstatic. Make doctor’s appointment. It’s not real until the doctor says it is.